


Sherlock Secret Santa

by ScarletOnyxx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sherlock Christmas, Sherlock Secret Santa, sherlock bbc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletOnyxx/pseuds/ScarletOnyxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly decides to throw a secret santa party. John is trying to make sense of all his strange gifts while Sherlock frustratingly tries to figure out who his secret santa may be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 1st

**1st December**

_Dear John Watson_  
 _You are invited to my Secret Santa party on the 24th of December, 7 o’clock in the evening. Everybody draws a name and will then have to secretly give a small gift to that person each week. On the day of the party we all bring a big gift and the Secret Santas will be revealed. We are going to have fun!_ _Yours,_ _Molly Hooper_

John averted his eyes from the opened envelope and looked up in the face of a beaming Molly.

“Now, draw a name!”

She held out a small bag full of folded slips of paper. John was about to decline her invitation before realizing he had no reason to. And besides, it had been years since he had last played Secret Santa. He dived with his hand into the bag and withdrew a paper slip.

_Greg Lestrade_

Okay. Right.

John watched as Molly left out the hospital door in search of his flatmate, and he looked down at the name again. Lestrade… now, what could he come up with for the detective inspector?

*

Molly tugged a loose strand of hair behind her ear and nervously watched the tall figure currently bent over a microscope. He was still, examining, a calculating expression on his face as always. Everything about his body language screamed at people to keep away, and yet she could not help but to feel drawn to him, no matter how many times she was cruelly rejected.

“You have been standing in the doorway for nearly a minute. Decide whether you are going to come in, or leave me to my work.”

Molly jumped at the deep sound of his voice. He had not even looked up from the microscope.

“Sherlock, how are you?” she said, making her smile to be as bright as possible before stepping into the room.

“Please, I can do without the niceties. I take it you came here for a specific reason? Probably something to do with whatever you are holding behind your back.”

She blushed and showed him the envelope, not daring to look at him as he took it from her and read the invitation.

“Not interested.”

Sherlock returned to the microscope, blatantly ignoring her. Molly stood for a while, waiting for him to say something more. Then she turned to walk out of the room, changed her mind, and went back.

“Your flatmate is going. Dr. Watson,” she said.

“So?”

“So… you should come too.”

“Why?”

“Because we want you to. It could be… nice.”

“Nice.”

Molly did not fail to note the slightly mocking tone, and she grimaced.

“Yes,” she said, “nice.”

“Alright.”

“What?”

“You really should invest in a hearing aid sometime in the near future. And perhaps a new haircut. I said I am going. I’ll come to your petty party.”

She blinked a couple of times before smiling widely. Sherlock frowned as she held out the bag.

“What’s this?”

“The names of everyone involved,” she explained, “You have to be the Secret Santa for somebody.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and then he drew a slip of paper from the bag, his face unreadable when he looked at it.

“And don’t forget to bring your person gifts! No less than one every week,” Molly said as she cheerfully waved and entered out the hallway.

*

“Hello, Mrs. H, how was your day?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at him as he entered the door to 221b.

“Exciting, I must say! Now, do you think you could explain to me the whole concept of the secret Santa Claus? The young lady from the hospital tried, but I am not quite certain I understand… Well, if you have time for a chat this afternoon, dear. I am in the middle of baking bread. Sherlock is upstairs, a little upset he would seem. Perhaps you should talk to him.”

“Will do, thanks,” said John and headed up the stairs.

Sherlock was lying sprawled on the sofa, seemingly not in a particularly great mood.

“Waste of my time,” he said, “Can’t believe I agreed to this.”

“Always good to see you, Sherlock,” John said and let himself fall into his seat, “What is it this time? Lack of good murders? Was it not gory enough for your taste? Or too obvious, perhaps?”

“Way too obvious. It was the hotel manager, of course. And no, this is not the problem.”

“Oh? What is it then?”

John turned a page in the newspaper.

“The whole idea of a Secret Santa is pointless!”

“Ah.”

“With only a little investigation, you are able to figure out who your Secret Santa is. Of course, most people do not get it right because –“

“–we’re stupid,” John finished, not once looking up from the articles.

“Exactly. So for me to participate in game like this...”

“Well, too late to back out now, isn’t it?”

John looked up when he received no response.

“Who are you Secret Santa for?” he asked.

“I thought that information were supposed to be kept confidential.”

“Well, yes. But you just seem particularly sulky, so I wondered who you have?”

Sherlocks eyes narrowed when John kept looking at him. Then he sighed and threw a piece of paper in John’s direction. The shorter man picked it up and read the name on it.

_Sally Donovan_

“Donovan?”

“Yes, her. Donovan! Of all people. That I should waste my time on her! And what am I supposed to give her anyway?” 

“Well…”

“Or… maybe that’s it. I don’t give her anything at all. Yes, that might work.”

John sighed.

“Sherlock, you _do_ have to give her something. It’s only fair. She did not ask to get you as her Secret Santa after all. Besides,” he added, “as a Secret Santa you are allowed to pull pranks on her too.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. They looked at each other and then both broke into amused grins.

*

Molly was done for the day. She had finished inviting all the people on her list, and now there was only one slip of paper left. Sitting down, she unfolded it and read the name. And frowned.

No way.

This could not be.

As she comprehended what the letters actually said on that paper, she looked up and caught sight of an approaching figure.

“Hello there, Molly.”

She bit her lip and looked down at the name again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apologize if this first chapter is not that good. I really just wanted to start this story before I distracted myself with something else. Oh, and the chapter length is going to vary depending on the chapter.


	2. 2nd December

**2nd December**

“Oh, it could be brilliant!”

John made tea while Sherlock paced about in the apartment, plotting to himself out loud.

“The gift, of course, would be insignificant; merely a detail. But oh, the frustration is going to be delicious. Ha! How I will enjoy it.”

The doctor could not help noticing how wrapped up in this Secret Santa business his flatmate was becoming. Sherlock blamed it on the lack of new cases.

Meanwhile John thought of what to get for Lestrade. Surely, it would not be difficult to find something for the man.

“Does Lestrade like sports? He must like sports.”

“Leading her to believe she is on the right track, and then throw her off completely…”

“But what kind… Football? Rugby, perhaps?”

“As for the gift, a minor detail, I will make it so hard to obtain that she won’t care what it is as long as she gets it.”

“Or maybe I should get him some food. Everybody likes good food. Everybody who actually eats,” John added and shot a pointed look in Sherlock’s direction, which Sherlock ignored.

*

Greg Lestrade sighed and rolled back in his chair. He had a stack of paperwork to complete and would also need to figure out what to give Sherlock’s brother. Sherlocks brother. The detective inspector had drawn Mycroft Holmes’ name, and he was absolutely clueless.

He barely knew the man. They had only met once or twice at a few crime scenes when Mycroft sought out his brother – something he apparently rarely did in person – and Lestrade had never actually talked to him.

So what did he give him? Seeing as Mycroft was related to Sherlock, there was a chance of them liking the same things: Violins, mysteries, and murder? Yes, those would make for _great_ gifts, Lestrade thought sarcastically.

Oh, and there was another problem. How on earth was he supposed to bring Mycroft the gifts? He did not know anything about the man apart from the fact that he happened to have a strained relationship with his sociopathic little brother. Where did he live? How could you get in touch with him and yet remain anonymous?

Then Lestrade sat straight up in his chair. He was a detective investigator, for God’s sake; if he could not even figure out where a single man lived, he might as well quit his job. And Lestrade was not about to quit.

*

“Smells good, Mrs. H, what are you making?”

“It’s a secret.”

Mrs. Hudson winked at him as he made his way down the stairs and caught the smell of fresh-baked cookies.

“I hope you’re my Secret Santa. It smells terrific!”

John proceeded out the door. He went about the streets of London for a while, looking at the shop windows, searching for a good present for Lestrade. After a while of debating to himself what he should give, he finally settled on giving a basket full of treats.

He had bought coffee, biscuits, a small variety of cheeses, and had now gone to a local teashop. As he stood eyeing the different kind of tea, he heard the door open and watched as Molly entered.

“’Hi, Molly,” he greeted.

She jumped and looked around wildly before her eyes found him.

“Oh, Dr. Watson,” she said, and looked nervous, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking at tea. For Secret Santa, you know.”

“Ah, right… right.”

It did not seem as though Molly had heard what she was saying. John watched her as he bought the chai; she did look exceptionally anxious. What had happened? The thought struck him that she might be his Secret Santa and therefore would not want to run into him as she bought his gift. With this in mind he said his goodbyes and hurried out the shop so she could buy his gift.

As John made his way back home, he noticed a CCTV camera turn to follow his movements.

Mycroft.

But why would he keep a watch right now? Unless Mycroft was his Secret Santa, and not Molly? Well, John would just have to wait and see.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a little short. But as I mentioned before, the length is going to vary depending on the chapter. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy ^^


	3. December 3rd

**3rd December**

“John!”

“JOHN!”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John said as he hurried into the living room. Sherlock was lying on the couch, arm dangling helplessly in the direction of the table.

“My phone.”

The doctor buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, please. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Get it for me.”

“Get it yourself!”

“John.”

“Fine!”

He grabbed the detective’s phone and read the text.

_Scotland Yard. Come quick._

“It’s from Lestrade.”

“Ask him what he wants.”

_Why?_

John sent the text and waited all of thirty seconds before the mobile beeped.

_Murder._

“You’ve got a case.”

Sherlock sprang to his feet before John had the chance to blink, and snatched the phone out of his hands.

_Coming. SH_

*

“Show me the body.”

“That’s the problem; there isn’t one.”

“What!”

Sherlock spun to face the detective inspector, eyes narrowed, calculating.

“We don’t have the body.”

“And yet you know a murder has been committed?”

Lestrade did not answer and instead bent behind his desk and handed Sherlock an envelope from the bottom drawer. The consulting detective opened it, read it, and handed it to John.

_Dear Scotland Yard_

_Guess what I have for you! That’s right, a Christmas present!!!_

_With much love,_

_Secret Santa_

_P.S. Be sure your hearts are in the right place_

“Is that all? This isn’t proof of murder.”

“It came with a box…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Containing a fresh human heart.”

“Ah.”

A second passed.

“So we have a murderer who plays Secret Santa with us,” John said.

“Seems like it. The heart is currently being looked at to see if there is any way of identifying the victim, but I would not count on it yet.”

“We know his or her blood type, probable age, and their heart’s state of health,” Sherlock said, “which gives us somewhere to start. Research every missing person who fits the profile. And you haven’t even considered what we might learn about the murderer, Lestrade. Let me take a look at it.”

As Lestrade left the room, accompanied by Sherlock who lectured him about the importance of observation, John decided to place Lestrade’s gift. He put the little basket underneath the table where the detective inspector would not instantly see it but still find it eventually. And then he followed the two men.

*

“Cleverly performed… he clearly knew what he was doing.” Sherlock turned the heart over in his gloved hand. “What precision. And yet… he used unnecessary force… Bloodthirsty, then.”

“The victim?”

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and frowned.

“No, the murderer.”

The consulting detective’s frown grew deeper as he spotted something on the heart’s underside. He used his thumb to spread open the cuts there, examining. Then his eyes widened in glee.

“Y.U.”

“What?”

“The letters Y and U have been cut into the muscle.”

John looked up, puzzlement written across his face.

“And what does that mean?” he asked.

“It’s a code, or part of one. As you so cleverly observed, John, we have a murderer playing Secret Santa with us.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “This won’t be the only ‘present’ we’ll receive.”

*

Sally weighed the box in her hand. Her name was written on it, and the gift was neatly wrapped in silver-colored paper, tied with a pink ribbon. She immediately grew suspicious. After a short while of trying to determine its content, she ripped it open impatiently. It was empty but for a note reading “NOPE”.

She threw it to the floor in frustration. It was the second empty box that week. She huffed. Next time, her Secret Santa had better come up with something good!

*

When John returned home, Sherlock having decided to examine the heart a bit longer, he noticed a note stuck to the inside of the door. He ripped it off and read it.

_I know that John is oh-so-kind_   
_No genius within his mind_

_The frustration is oh-so sweet_   
_Hidden in 221b Baker Street_   
_Engaged in search, but what’ll he find?_

_Xx Secret Santa_

What the hell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this in ages! I'm terribly sorry. I will start to update more regularly now, and I plan to have it finished at Christmas!


	4. December 4th

**4th December**

“They’re new, aren’t they?”

“Of course they’re new. Just look at them!”

Mrs. Hudson beamed as she showed off her ear warmers to the boys. They had a pleasant flowery pattern.

“I got them this morning,” she said.

“Oh, they must be from your Secret Santa, no?”

“Obviously. Who else did you think, John?”

“Yes, there was a nice letter attached to them, signed Secret Santa.”

“Well, Mrs. Hudson, that’s certainly something worth keeping!”

She winked at them. “I know,” she said, and left.

“Everybody seems to obsess over this Secret Santa business, don’t you think?”

No response.

“Sherlock?”

The doctor turned to look at his flatmate who was lying on the couch, arms crossed.

“Have you received anything yet?”

Sherlock turned on his side, facing away.

“Sher–“

“No!” he interrupted. “And this is stupid.”

“I haven’t received a gift either. And the week isn’t over yet, y’know.”

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible, and John sighed and sipped his cup of tea. The doctor then withdrew the slip of paper from his pocket and read it over again. 

_I know that John is oh-so-kind  
No genius within his mind_

_The frustration is oh-so sweet_  
 _Hidden in 221b Baker Street_  
 _Engaged in search, but what’ll he find?_

Perhaps if he stared at it long enough he would figure out the message. No doubt Sherlock would solve it in a minute, but John’s pride refused to let him seek the detective’s help and listen to the exclamations of “Obvious” and “Oh, please.”

Hmm… maybe his Secret Santa was merely taunting him, pretending to hide some secret code in the poem. And who could his Santa be? Sherlock? No, he was Secret Santa for Donovan. Molly perhaps? She _did_ seem strangely nervous when she saw him last time. And Mycroft was following him with the CCTV – although this was a common occurrence.

John gazed down at the paper again. What would Sherlock do? Or no. Perhaps that would not be a good approach. Mrs. Hudson’s flat had a limit to how much damage it would be able stand.

He picked up a pen from the table and started drawing circles on the papers and rearranging words in anagrams.

*

Grumble.

Sherlock shifted on the couch.

_Stupid._

How was one supposed to discover one’s Secret Santa when one had received nothing? Perhaps the measurement of heart rates of suspects while interrogating them would do the trick. He could hear the scribbling of John’s pen. No, they might object to that. And leading questions may be detected…

He reached out with one long arm and snatched his phone form the table.

_Secret Santa? SH_

He pressed send. Half a minute later, he received a text.

_Wouldn’t you like to know. M_

_Any luck? SH_

Sherlock sighed, wavering the phone as he waited for a reply.

_Received mine this morning. M_

Suppressing a fit of childish anger, he typed in the texts with unnecessary force.

_What was it? SH_

_It was a rich chocolate cake, wasn’t it? SH_

_Or did you buy that yourself? SH_

_You’re not exactly getting thinner. SH_

It took all of sixty seconds before the phone beeped again.

_No. It was just… an umbrella. M_

_Dull. SH_

*

John looked up, startled, as Sherlock threw his phone at the wall.

“What did you do that for?” he yelled, indignantly.

Sherlock huffed.

“Didn’t have your gun.”

“That’s not an excuse!”

At that moment the phone beeped again. John bent over and picked it up.

“It appears to have survived.”

“Dull…”

“Oh,” John said as he looked at the text. “It’s from Scotland Yard.”

*

“Well, then?”

“I have here a list over London’s missing people from last month. And only very few of them fit your description, I’m afraid.”

“Is that so?” the detective said and strolled around the room. “Tall male in his mid or early thirties. In a healthy condition, no smoking habit, but have recently undergone a lot of stress. And you managed to narrow that down to a few persons? Why, congratulations, Lestrade, you are improving.”

“I don’t think you understand,” the inspector continued, “the search is not narrowed down to anybody. Because it is not possible for any of these people to be the victim.”

Sherlock tilted his head back slightly.

“Oh? And why not?”

Lestrade grimaced.

“They were all found dead in car accidents last week,” he said. “That’s approximately two or three weeks after they went missing.”

“They all died in the accident?” John asked.

“All three of them. In several accidents. Unrelated.”

“That sounds suspicious.”

“Well,” the doctor said, “people die in car accidents all the time. Perhaps the victim just haven’t been reported missing yet?”

“Perhaps,” the detective repeated. “We do not have a lot to go on yet.”

“Nope. Any ideas what Y. U. means?” Lestrade asked, stuffing the file back into the drawer.

“Well, considering the season, “yule” seems like an obvious word. Although, these four weeks of December would require eight letters, if the murderer sticks to this presumed pattern.”

The pair exited Lestrade’s office, and as they made their way to the door, they spotted two familiar figures.

“Oh, the freak has decided to join us yet again?”

“Why, good morning, Donovan. Had fun last night?”

“Shut up, freak.”

“I’m impressed by your vocabulary.”

Standing behind Donovan, Anderson munched eagerly on some baked goods. As he caught on to what was going on, he sent Sherlock a dirty look, attempting to load it with as much respite as possible.

“Where do you have that from,” John said, and frowned. The smell of Anderson’s food was quite delighting.

“’Ecret Sarnta!” he exclaimed, nearly spitting out crumbs all over everybody. Donovan looked slightly revolted.

“Oh God, you’re in it too,” Sherlock said, and made about to leave.

“You are just rhealous!”

Trying to avoid Anderson’s violent crumb-spitting, John ducked behind them to follow Sherlock outside.

“Freak!” Donovan yelled, and turned to open the cupboard behind her. The shriek that followed echoed throughout the building as a ton of confetti burst out into her face.

As they left, John swore he could see the ghost of a smile on Sherlock’s lips.

*

Afternoon came, and another note was taped to the inside of the door of 221b Baker Street. John ripped it off and read it:

_The answer’s right in front of his eyes_  
 _Eagerly John looks around_  
 _And searches for it on the ground_

_Probably won’t see past the lies_  
 _Or maybe he is surprisingly wise?_  
 _Too early to tell, so what has he found?_

_Xx Secret Santa_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I haven't updated for a while. Still trying to finish this before Christmas. Could be fun if I could update this approximately every new day in December, but I'm a little behind. And I'm also quite busy of late, unfortunately.


	5. December 5th

**5th December**

How to decode a mocking poem:

Step 1: Sit down with a nice cup of tea.

Step 2: Drink said cup of tea.

Step 3: By sheer chance come across the deeper mysteries of the universe, and use your enlightened state to decode the poem.

John was still hopelessly alternating between Step 1 and 2.

From the couch he heard the mumbling of a sulking Sherlock.

“Even _Mycroft’s_ got a gift…”

It was unusual to see Sherlock like this while on a case. Although this one was a little different. As Sherlock had expressed in a tantrum last night, the murderer was careful in revealing only what he (or she) wished that Scotland Yard should learn.

John had run out of tea again, and he left his chair to go make some more. As he maneuvered his way to the kitchen, carefully avoiding Sherlock’s experiments, he thought of the condition of his flatmate. Perhaps the mood swings had always been rather severe and unjustified, but the depressing grayness of winter led John to think of causes of graver quality. But maybe Sherlock’s fits had merely worn on his own mood.

The tea was done, and John carried it to the living room.

As he returned to the table, he noticed he had left a paper lying on top of the poem, such that it covered everything but the first few letters. He looked at it again, withdrew the poem, and marked the first letter of each sentence.

Now, the poem looked thus:

**I** know that John is oh-so-kind  
 **No** genius within his mind

**T** he frustration is oh-so sweet  
 **H** idden in 221b Baker Street  
 **E** ngaged in search, but what’ll he find?

**T** he answer’s right in front of his eyes  
 **E** agerly John looks around  
 **A** nd searches for it on the ground

**P** robably won’t see past the lies  
 **O** r maybe he is surprisingly wise?  
 **T** oo early to tell, so what has he found?

I–N–T–H–E–T–E–A–P–O–T

In the teapot.

How… painfully obvious, now that he thought about it. Well… he stood and quickly went to look in the teapot – the one in which he usually hid Sherlock’s cigarettes.

Something was really there.

*

The blog of Molly Hooper had been commented on by “Anonymous”. Frowning, Molly scrolled down the screen and saw what had been written:

_No luck with the cold detective? Ignoring you, is he?_  
 _That’s too bad now. You’re such a nice girl. Perhaps a little too nice. So eager to please._  
 _Check your email._  
 _Secret Santa_

Molly read it over twice before she checked her email.

_Good girl._  
 _Now, listen to my advice. I am going to teach you how to seduce the object of your desires. Regardless of what I tell you to do, you must follow my instructions. Have I made myself clear?_  
 _Secret Santa_

Slightly puzzled, she looked at the email address.

_yoursecretsanta@hotmail.com_

Molly quickly typed in a reply.

_How do I know it is going to work? I just might make a fool out of myself._

Turning away from the computer screen, she wondered if her Secret Santa was only trying to trick her into acting stupidly, as a prank. Mere moments later, an email arrived in her inbox.

_That is bond to happen without my interference. You will come to trust my words.  
Mortuary, tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I obviously did not make it to Christmas. Never mind that, then. It'll just be a Christmas story, readable at whichever time of the year you choose.


End file.
